she found herself in.
They were deep in the shadows but it would be a natural place to look. The open cooler door was going to make him search longer and more thoroughly than he might have otherwise. The only saving grace was that the crates were solid ones, no cracks between the slats. If he realized they weren’t stacked right back to the wall though, they were as good as dead.
He poked at the crates and they swayed a bit, threatening to topple into their hole and give them away. The woman clutched her hand convulsively and Pamela clutched back. They were both holding their breath now, hearts pounding erratically. She could feel the woman’s pulse hard and panicked against her palm.
She had learned the hard way how to be still, how to not move or breathe so that one did not attract unwanted attention. She had learned that some men did not see a person with a life and loved ones, they simply saw something to use or to kill when they looked at a woman. She had learned that one night on a train. It was a lesson that did not go away… ever.
He was lingering around the crates as if he sensed them, the way a fox will hear the rapid tattoo of a rabbit’s heart as it lies paralyzed in its sights. She could feel him listening, hear him breathing, and smell the sweat of violence on his skin. Then, as suddenly as he had entered the small space he was gone, shouting in a rough voice that he had searched the back and there wasn’t anyone on the premises. She let her air out slowly, feeling like a punctured balloon, not certain how her legs were going to bear her up out of this space. She turned to look at the woman and found herself confronted by eyes the color of fringed gentian. As clear as the remarkable color, was the fact that the woman was blind. As terrifying as Pamela was finding this, she knew that to experience it without sight had to be doubly horrifying.
“I have to check on Mr. Linehan,” she said, though she knew it was futile. The man was dead, but on the one chance in a million that he had a thready pulse left, she could not leave him this way. “But then I’ll come back and we’ll go out the back door. It’s just behind you. I’m going to put your hand on the knob so that you can get out if I’m not back in two minutes. Alright?”
The woman nodded, her face pinched and white with fear.
The shop was littered with glass and a spreading crimson pool, congealing already at its edges. The door to the street was open, the street outside as quiet as if it were three in the morning rather than the afternoon. One glance at Mr. Linehan told Pamela all she needed to know, he was beyond any sort of mortal help. She took a breath, careful not to step in the blood, though the men who had shot Mr. Linehan hadn’t taken any such precautions. If she had to lay odds on them being caught, she wouldn’t bet much more than the sheep shed. She walked swiftly back to the storeroom where the woman waited, hand still on the doorknob.
Outside, the air seemed to hum with a high vibration. Violence, she had found through experience, left a definite energy in its wake as if the moment kept playing itself over and over long after the actual event. The warm March day had disappeared in the time she had been in the shop and a cold wind ripped down from the slopes of Slieve Gullion, slapping their faces and stinging their eyes. She scanned the area quickly. The narrow lane, the overhanging trees. The closest houses were within sight and surely within the sound of an automatic weapon blast, but there was no sign that anyone had heard anything.
The car was parked beside the village’s old church, only a minute’s walk away.
“Take my arm,” she said, guiding the woman’s hand to her elbow.
“Is he… is he dead?” she asked, the gentian eyes near black.
“Yes, he is,” Pamela said shortly, half her mind occupied with how to leave this village without being spotted, the other half trying to push away the image of Mr.
They were deep in the shadows but it would be a natural place to look. The open cooler door was going to make him search longer and more thoroughly than he might have otherwise. The only saving grace was that the crates were solid ones, no cracks between the slats. If he realized they weren’t stacked right back to the wall though, they were as good as dead.
He poked at the crates and they swayed a bit, threatening to topple into their hole and give them away. The woman clutched her hand convulsively and Pamela clutched back. They were both holding their breath now, hearts pounding erratically. She could feel the woman’s pulse hard and panicked against her palm.
She had learned the hard way how to be still, how to not move or breathe so that one did not attract unwanted attention. She had learned that some men did not see a person with a life and loved ones, they simply saw something to use or to kill when they looked at a woman. She had learned that one night on a train. It was a lesson that did not go away… ever.
He was lingering around the crates as if he sensed them, the way a fox will hear the rapid tattoo of a rabbit’s heart as it lies paralyzed in its sights. She could feel him listening, hear him breathing, and smell the sweat of violence on his skin. Then, as suddenly as he had entered the small space he was gone, shouting in a rough voice that he had searched the back and there wasn’t anyone on the premises. She let her air out slowly, feeling like a punctured balloon, not certain how her legs were going to bear her up out of this space. She turned to look at the woman and found herself confronted by eyes the color of fringed gentian. As clear as the remarkable color, was the fact that the woman was blind. As terrifying as Pamela was finding this, she knew that to experience it without sight had to be doubly horrifying.
“I have to check on Mr. Linehan,” she said, though she knew it was futile. The man was dead, but on the one chance in a million that he had a thready pulse left, she could not leave him this way. “But then I’ll come back and we’ll go out the back door. It’s just behind you. I’m going to put your hand on the knob so that you can get out if I’m not back in two minutes. Alright?”
The woman nodded, her face pinched and white with fear.
The shop was littered with glass and a spreading crimson pool, congealing already at its edges. The door to the street was open, the street outside as quiet as if it were three in the morning rather than the afternoon. One glance at Mr. Linehan told Pamela all she needed to know, he was beyond any sort of mortal help. She took a breath, careful not to step in the blood, though the men who had shot Mr. Linehan hadn’t taken any such precautions. If she had to lay odds on them being caught, she wouldn’t bet much more than the sheep shed. She walked swiftly back to the storeroom where the woman waited, hand still on the doorknob.
Outside, the air seemed to hum with a high vibration. Violence, she had found through experience, left a definite energy in its wake as if the moment kept playing itself over and over long after the actual event. The warm March day had disappeared in the time she had been in the shop and a cold wind ripped down from the slopes of Slieve Gullion, slapping their faces and stinging their eyes. She scanned the area quickly. The narrow lane, the overhanging trees. The closest houses were within sight and surely within the sound of an automatic weapon blast, but there was no sign that anyone had heard anything.
The car was parked beside the village’s old church, only a minute’s walk away.
“Take my arm,” she said, guiding the woman’s hand to her elbow.
“Is he… is he dead?” she asked, the gentian eyes near black.
“Yes, he is,” Pamela said shortly, half her mind occupied with how to leave this village without being spotted, the other half trying to push away the image of Mr.
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